e former stifles the latter? Indeed, one can escape boredom, but
not love. One can flee the quidnuncs of the salon, but not the
questioning perplexity of one's heart. A truce now to ambiguities.

'Tis high time that we give a brief account of what took place after
Khalid took leave of Mrs. Gotfry. Many "devilish mischances" have
since then conspired against Khalid's peace of mind. For when they
were leaving Beirut, only a few minutes before the train started, Mrs.
Gotfry, who was also going to Damascus, steps into the same carriage,
which he and his companions occupied: mischance first. Arriving in
Damascus they both stay at the same Hotel: mischance second. At table
this time he occupies the seat next to hers, and once, rising
simultaneously, their limbs touch: mischance third. And the last and
worst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her own is in the
same side-hall opposite to his. Now, who could have ordered it thus,
of all the earthly powers? And who can say what so many mischances
might not produce? True, a thousand thistles do not make a rose; but
with destiny this logic does not hold. For every new mischance makes
us forget the one preceding; and the last and worst is bound to be the
harbinger of good fortune. Yes, every people, we imagine, has its
aphorisms on the subject: Distress is the key of relief, says the
Arabic proverb; The strait leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The
darkest hour is nearest the dawn, says the English.

But we must not make any stipulations with time, or trust in
aphorisms. We do not know what Mrs. Gotfry's ideas are on the subject.
Nor can we say how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences.
In her religious heart, might there not be some shadow of an ancient
superstition, some mystical, instinctive strain, in which the
preternatural is resolved? That is a question which neither our Scribe
nor his Master will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful so
far in the discharge of our editorial duty, can not at this juncture
afford to fabricate.

We know, however, that the Priestess of Buhaism and the beardless,
long-haired Dervish have many a conversation together: in the train,
in the Hotel, in the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their
hearts and minds, and drink of each other's wine of thought and
fancy.

"I first mistook you for a Mohammedan," she said to him once; and he
assured her that she was not mistaken.

"Then, you are not a Christian?"